It was a distressing end. Few things are more
distressing, indeed, than the sudden demise of a potential
clergyman. And for the first three or four days of my work in
Paternoster Row my spirits were appreciably
clouded. Nevertheless, I was happy not only that I had embarked
upon the career so satisfactorily chosen for me, but also in the
consciousness that, but for my own perspicacity, Providence
would have found it difficult to assist me. Moreover, it was an
additional comfort to me to reflect that, during my upward
progress in the firm, I should have the obligatory if unwilling
support of Mrs Chrysostom Lorton. A word in the ear of her
husband, and her infamy could be no longer concealed, and I
could not suppose that, callous as she was, she would dare to
expose herself to such an event.

Few young men, therefore, can have entered business life better
equipped or so advantageously placed, and had I in consequence
been carried away a little, it would scarcely perhaps have been
unnatural. Very fortunately, however, and thanks in a great
degree to the character-forming incidents already related, I
realized from the outset that I was now definitely committed to
the most critical period of a young man's life - namely, the
years, so fatal to the vast majority, between his seventeenth
and twenty-fourth birthdays. Then it is, alas, that intoxicated
with the knowledge that he has become, in my father's phrase, a
marriageable adult that he begins to resort for the first time
to the tobacconist and the publican - to buy the cigarette that
will so inevitably lure him into loose and licentious company,
and the fermented liquor that will only too surely encase him in
a drunkard's coffin.

Nor is that all. For it is in these same years, turning aside
from the pleasures of home, - from such innocent round games as
Conceal the Thimble or the less familiar Up Jenkins, or from the
happy singing round the family harmonium of such a humorous glee
as Three Blind Mice -that he enters the Pit (so appropriately
named) of some garish and degrading theatre.

It is a sorrowful spectacle. But happily for
my own sake, I had already been so deeply saddened by it that I
had long since resolved, when the necessity should arise, to
take every possible precaution. No sooner, therefore, had I
obtained my appointment than I hastened to enrol myself as a
member of the Peckham Branch of the Non-Smokers' League as well
as of the Kennington Division of the Society for the Prohibition
of the Strong Drink Traffic. Congenial in every way, I not only
discovered in these an enormous sphere for the exercise of my
influence, but the membership of both societies conferred the
privilege of wearing a small badge or bone medallion.

A slightly convex and circular plaque to be pinned on the lapel
of the wearer's coat, the token of membership of the
Non-Smokers' League was about an inch in diameter. Of a pale
cream colour, it was tastefully wreathed with dark blue lilies,
symbolic of purity, the centre of it being occupied with the
initials N.S.L. boldly imprinted in the same colours. No
less decorative to the wearer than intriguing to the beholder, a
reply to the question so often put as to what the initials
N.S.L. stood for frequently afforded a valuable
opportunity for soul-intercourse on the subject of tobacco.

Nor was the medallion of the Society for the Prohibition of the
Strong Drink Traffic either less attractive or efficient as an
instigator of fruitful converse. Slightly larger - its diameter
was an inch and a quarter - its ground-work was of an olive
green, the letters S.P.S.D.T. richly emerging from this
in an ingenious monogram of canary yellow.

Into the work of these societies I now threw myself with all the
vehemence at my command, and had soon forced myself into the
innermost councils of the local branch of each. Meeting every
fortnight in a neighbouring church hall, the Peckham Branch of
the Non-Smokers' League did not confine itself merely to the
organization of these central gatherings. Valuable as they were
in providing a pulpit for lectures upon nicotine poisoning and
its attendant evils, we rightly regarded the outside world as
the main field of our endeavours. Provided with such strikingly
headed pamphlets as A Gentleman or a Chimney? or the even
more dramatic and spiritually searching Your Soul or Your
Cigar? we would range the streets addressing obvious
smokers, or station ourselves upon the pavement in the
neighbourhood of tobacconists' shops. In this way, though
frequently required to endure verbal persecution, I am proud to
believe that the work performed by us was both timely and
enduring.

Working on lines that were somewhat similar, the Kennington
Division of the S.P.S.D.T. held monthly reunions for the
purpose of communally denouncing the use of alcohol; and here we
would discuss, over cups of tea and slices of plain but
palatable cake, the results of our labours during the previous
four weeks and our plans for the four immediately ensuing.
Appreciably more dangerous, in that we deemed it our duty to
distribute literature at the doors of Public Houses, whence
there would emerge in depressingly large numbers combative men
of considerable size, we never embarked upon this particular
mission save in groups of four or five, each member being
provided with a police whistle in addition to his parcel of
appropriate leaflets.

Admirably illustrated, these bore such arresting titles as
Passing the Poison or From Beer to Bier, two of
the most efficient being The Dram Drinker's Downfall, and
Virtue versus Vertigo. That all these works, like those
of the N.S.L., were published by the firm of Chrysostom
Lorton was, of course, an additional and pleasurable inducement
to further their disposal in every way. And although as yet this
could not result for me in any direct financial advantage, it
must be remembered that at this time there was still every
prospect of its eventually doing so.

To thousands of my readers, slacker in fibre, or not so resolute
in the pursuit of goodness, it may well seem now as if these
activities must have exhausted my spiritual capacity. But this
was not the case, and conscious as I was - it would have been an
affectation to deny it - of my very rapidly increasing ability
for both religious and commercial leadership, I took every
opportunity of developing my unchallenged gift of
self-expression. Thus, within a year of my business advent, I
had not only addressed both the foregoing societies, but I had
become a familiar and, I trust, welcome figure at every local
prayer-meeting.

I use the word welcome because I had not only
discerned in these gatherings an admirable vehicle of
elocutionary progress, but I had quickly discovered in them a
crying need that it was plainly my duty to supply. Familiar to
every frequenter of the average prayer-meeting, whether Church
of England or Nonconformist, this was nothing less than the
presence of a gap-filler, especially in the earlier stages of
the proceedings. Few can have failed, for example, to notice the
pause that almost invariably takes place after the Chairman has
delivered his own petition and invited the efforts of further
supplicants. Painful in itself, in that it so often accentuates
the respiratory difficulties of those present, how often is it
broken, alas, by the simultaneous commencement of two or more
separate competitors? Nor is that all. For, each realizing that
he is too late, a disheartened silence generally ensues, only to
be broken perhaps by a second neck-to-neck effort on the part of
all the previous starters that abortively collapses again on
some such unfortunate phrase as `Oh dear, oh Lord.'

It was here, then, that I descried, and at once began to work,
an almost virgin field, never allowing an instant to elapse
after the right to supplicate had been declared general. Indeed
on many occasions I filled the subsequent gaps also, and at one
particularly reluctant gathering, I can well remember, in less
than an hour, offering a dozen full-length petitions. That I
soon had rivals goes without saying. Who, in such a position,
could have escaped them? But once started, I allowed no second
petitioner to deflect or abbreviate my entreaties.

Perhaps the work, however, in which I was
most interested was that of the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory*
Union, founded by Ezekiel Stool, the son of Abraham Stool, the
inventor and proprietor of Stool's Adult Gripe Water. Probably the most persistent and unflinching
opponent that the theatre and dancing saloon have ever known, he
was then some twenty-six years of age and of a very remarkable
and beautiful character. Indeed all that he lacked of these two
qualities in his actual physical appearance seemed to have been
concentrated with additional force in his spiritual
personality. No taller than myself, and weighing considerably
less, he had suffered all his life from an inherent dread of
shaving, and the greater portion of his face was in consequence
obliterated by a profuse but gentle growth of hair. His voice,
too, owing to some developmental defect, had only partially
broken; and indeed his father Abraham (afterwards removed to an
asylum) had on more than one occasion attempted to sacrifice
him, under the mistaken impression that he was some sort of
animal that would be suitable as a burnt offering.

Regarded as a character, however, and when he had fully assured
himself that he was not in the presence of a theatre-goer or
dancer, it would have been difficult to imagine a more
affectionate or deeply trustful companion;* and
many an hour we spent together combating the drama, both in
Central London and the suburbs. Well provided with money, thanks
to the sales of the Gripe Water - an excellent remedy to which I
have frequently had recourse - he had himself composed and
caused to be printed several extremely powerful leaflets. Of
these perhaps the best were The Chorus Girl's Catastrophe
and Did Wycliffe Waltz? and these we would distribute in
large numbers among the degenerate pleasure-seekers standing
outside theatres. Purchasing seats, too, we would ourselves
from time to time enter these buildings, rising in our places
when the curtain was drawn up and audibly rebuking the
performers. Needless to say, having registered our protest, we
would then immediately leave the premises, not always immune
from the coarse objurgations of obviously interested minions.

Nor were we less vigorous in our onslaught upon the equally
prevalent sin of dancing, either personally attending or
stationing delegates at the entrances to halls or private
houses, and endeavouring if possible by individual appeals to
warn or deter would-be malefactors. An uphill task, it was not
for us to say to how great an extent we may have succeeded, but
I can remember at least twelve persons, male and female, who
promised to consider what we had pointed out to them.

Deeply as I appreciated, however, the
opportunity of furthering this valuable and congenial work, I
had not as yet realized the ultimate object that an inscrutable
Providence had in view, or that in Ezekiel Stool I had already
been handed the compass that was destined to lead my steps to
matrimony. Such was the case, however, little as I then dreamed
it, and even less, if such a thing were possible, was I
attracted, on a first acquaintance, to any of his five
sisters. Simply divided into twins and triplets, these were all
younger than Ezekiel himself, the triplets being then
twenty-four, and the twins three years younger. None of them was
married, and indeed, as regarded the triplets, this was scarcely
perhaps to be wondered at. For though they had been
interestingly named by their father as Faith, Hope, and Charity,
they were plain girls, deeply marked by smallpox, and of rather
less than the average intelligence. Nor indeed were the twins,
Tact and Understanding, at all remarkable for personal beauty,
and the toes of one of them, as I was afterwards to discover,
were most unfortunately webbed. On the other hand, they were
kindly, domestic creatures. All five of them could play the
piano. And the heart of each, as they have frequently told me,
was profoundly stirred by my first visit.

Little as I shared, however, though I could not fail to
perceive, the cardiac exaltation of these five females, I have
always looked back to that first visit with a very considerable
degree of pleasure, and not the less so because of the
preliminary service that I was able to render their brother
Ezekiel. Indeed it was this that led to an invitation to share
the evening meal at the Stools' house, a substantial residence
with a large garden, about five minutes' walk from Camberwell
Green.

A November dusk, some eighteen months or so
after my entrance into commercial life, I had forgotten that it
was the anniversary of the attempt of Guy Fawkes to destroy the
Upper Chamber of our Legislature, and my thoughts were engaged
upon other matters as I began to walk home from the omnibus
stopping-place. I had hardly walked a hundred yards, however,
when my attention was suddenly attracted to a somewhat
vociferous group of boys, in the midst of whom, to my surprise
and anxiety, I saw my friend Ezekiel Stool. For a moment I was
at a loss both as how to proceed and the possible reason for the
conclave. But a moment later I discovered that the position was
no less disturbing than grotesque. Doubtless intoxicated with
the memories of the day, these ignorant and turbulent youths had
apparently discerned in my friend Ezekiel a resemblance to the
conspirator of 1605. Nay, they had gone further. They had
professed to perceive in him an actual reincarnation of the
original miscreant, and this in spite of the fact that Ezekiel
had repeatedly explained to them that he had no knowledge of
pyrotechnics.

`Believe me,' he had said, `I am neither the man you mention,
nor do I resemble any authentic portrait of him. Nor have I
placed explosives under anybody's chamber either in London or
the Provinces.'

Despite his denials, however, supported as
they were by references to prominent local residents, the group
of vociferators was quickly growing both in numbers and
excitement, and several suggestions were being audibly made that
he should be exterminated by fire. It was a moment for action,
and I took it. Fortunately my police whistle was in my
pocket. And in the next instant I was blowing blast upon blast
to the utmost capacity of my lung power. The effect was
immediate. For scarcely had the boys dispersed when three or
four constables arrived on the scene, all of them breathless
from the act of running, but carrying their truncheons in their
hands. Being breathless too, I could only point at Ezekiel, and
for the first moment they misunderstood me, rapidly surrounding
him, as he leaned against a lamp-post, and lifting their
truncheons above their heads. Once again, therefore, it was a
moment for action, and once again I took it. Throwing myself in
front of him, I shouted to them to forbear, and then very
briefly I explained what had happened. Unfortunately, as I have
said, the boys had already dispersed. But then, as I pointed out
to them, that had been my object, and the fact that this had
taken place before their arrival was no reflection upon their
courage. I cannot record, however, that their reception of this
news was either Xtian or even courteous, and it was a very great
relief both to myself and Ezekiel when these powerful
professionals at last went away. Nevertheless, as Ezekiel said, I had probably
twice saved his life, and during the evening meal, to which he
at once invited me, both his parents and his five sisters
repeatedly expressed their satisfaction. Mr Abraham Stool,
indeed, who had not then been segregated, but who was already
under the impression that he was the Hebrew patriarch, several
times insisted upon my approaching him and placing my hand under
his left thigh, after which he would offer me, in addition to
Mrs Stool, a varying number of rams and goats.

Needless to say, I declined to accept these, and a week or two
later, as I have already indicated, it was deemed advisable,
owing to his tendency to sacrifice, to place him in other and
remoter surroundings. But it was a happy evening, during which,
as I shall always remember, Ezekiel Stool expressed his regret
that my father and myself were not fellow-worshippers with them
at St Nicholas, Newington Butts. Satisfied as we were, however,
with St James-the-Least-of-All, where my father had now become
senior sidesman, we had seen no reason, as I was obliged to
point out to him, for again transferring our worship; and little did I dream that even as I was
speaking those sinister events were already shaping themselves
that were ultimately to unite us - their only redeeming outcome
- in this new and closer bond.